Mortimir: The Unforgotten
by NPYMG
Summary: Mortimir is the neglected brother of Faramir and Boromir. He cannot stand it any longer. He is attacked by orcs as he tries to flee, but is rescued by a mysterious stranger. They become friends, but can Mortimir hide his true identity? Will he and his sav
1. The Decision

Mortimir: The Unforgotten   
  
Summary: Mortimir is the neglected brother of Faramir and Boromir. As the middle child, he is never taken seriously, and one day, he decides that he cannot stand it any longer. He is attacked by orcs as he tries to flee from his home, but is rescued by a mysterious stranger. They become friends, but can Mortimir hide his true identity? Will he and his savior find solace in each other? PLZ R+R!!!!!1!!  
  
  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's sexy, sexy, body ... of work. Or any part of his sexy, sexy body ... of work. The concept of Mortimir came from the show "Arsenic and Old Lace."  
  
Chapter One: The Decision   
  
Mortimir was special. Unlike his older brother, Boromir, and his younger brother, Faramir, Mortimir did not enjoy fighting, drinking, or being rambunctious. In fact, he didn't enjoy most of the pastimes that seemed to amuse normal men. Mortimir was different.  
  
Instead of sparring or jousting under the harsh Middle-Earth sun, Mortimir liked to sit in the royal gardens, under his favorite willow tree, and write poetry. Sometimes, when the day was extra bright and invigorating, he would even sit down with his lyre and write songs. When it rained, he would sit in his father's oft-empty library and study physics, mathematics, and the stars. He loved spending his free time exercising his creative mind, learning new things and understanding the ways of the world.  
  
No one appreciated Mortimir. Every time he was excited about a new painting he had made, his brothers and father would scoff, celebrating instead their minor victories in battle. Once, Boromir had even been so rude as to slash one of the paintings with his sword, making Mortimir sad and upset. No one understood that he didn't find warfare and aggression noble - he preferred intellectual stimulation.  
  
Mortimir longed to be free of his confining family. As the son of the Steward of Gondor, Mortimir was bound to perform certain expectations, many of which he found cumbersome or uninteresting. He didn't like to parade around in ceremonial armor. He didn't like to practice sword-fighting techniques. He didn't like being forced to act in ways that he didn't want to act. He wanted to be free from these severe restrictions! He needed to escape!  
  
For years Mortimir had thought of running away. But his family was so closely knit that he could never elude the ever-watchful eyes of his father. But things were changing. Never before had he had such a clear window of opportunity. Boromir was now in charge of defending the White City, Faramir was training for battle, and his father, Denethor, seemed strangely distracted. The time was perfect. Since no one paid much attention to him normally, the disjointed family would not notice his absence for some days.  
  
After the next group of orcs attacked, he would quietly disappear during the skirmish. He would follow the Anduin River north, through the Brown Lands, and somehow cross over the mountains and into Eriador. Only there would he find solace. Only there would he be accepted.  
  
But until then, Mortimir would wait, and lay his plans ...   
  
***  
  
R & R, SVP! 


	2. The Attack

Chapter 2 – The Attack  
  
The stars were shining bright in the sky. Mortimir sighed, his breath creating a cloud of steam against the black night. He had never seen the sky so dark. But he had never been outside the walls of Minis Tirith at night, either. Mortimir clutched his satchel tightly, reflexively. He had never been so enveloped in darkness. And the stars seemed to call out to him, friendly, guiding him towards his destination. He wished he had brought his easel and paints with him. But that would have been too conspicuous, so he'd left them behind. Perhaps he would remember this night, and be able to paint it later, when he arrived at Rivendell.  
  
Mortimir was one of, if not the best artists in all of Gondor. When he tired of writing poetry (Mortimir was one of, if not the best poets in all of Gondor) he would often sit precariously on a windswept precipice and draw landscapes in the sunset. One time, he saw an eagle flying overhead, and he sketched that eagle, and it won first prize in the Gondor Yearly Art Competition, which meant it would hang in his father's audience chamber for a whole year. He had been so happy. But when his father found out that he had won the competition, he grew angry and tore down the picture, and ripped it into little pieces, and set the pieces on fire, and then scattered them to the wind. That made Mortimir sad.  
  
The shadow of Mirkwood Forest loomed ahead, imposing, and somehow blacker than the black night. Mortimir was only a few minutes away from the forest's edge now. He thought about setting up camp there for the night; he didn't know much about the forest, but he did know that his father was afraid of the elves that lived there, and wouldn't send his men anywhere near the forest. One time, when Mortimir was just a kid, a whole company of men disappeared into the forest while on a routine training mission, and Denethor didn't even think about sending any help. No one would talk to Mortimir about it, but he knew it was because the elves there were terribly cruel, and hated the men of Gondor, and there was no chance that the band of men had survived.  
  
But Mortimir wasn't scared. He was different than other men of Gondor. He even looked different; instead of dark, grimy hair, he had brilliant and immaculate flame red locks that shone golden in the sun, and green eyes that rivaled the most precious jewels in Middle Earth. He always bathed regularly, and exfoliated daily. Even an elf could never guess that he was from Gondor. If her were captured, he would share in the elves' hate for his father. He would be safe in Mirkwood.  
  
Mortimir reached the first growth of trees in only a few minutes, and began to set up camp. He was excited now, and didn't realize that he was not alone until it was too late. A sudden noise startled him, and he turned around, dressed only in his stewardly night robe, and came face to face with a gang of bloodthirsty orcs. He was too scared to scream, and his sword was too far away to reach.  
  
An orc swiped at his face, sending him sprawling to the ground. The group moved forward, surrounding him.  
  
Before he fainted, he thought he saw a shadow pass over the orcs, and as his eyes fell closed, he imagined he heard the sharp twang of arrows flying in his direction. 


	3. The Meeting

Author's note: Please read the first chapter to get a feel for this story. If you start here, you probably won't get it. Also, lots of foreshadowing.

Chapter 3 - The Meeting

"Would you like something to eat?"

When the words finally managed to penetrate Mortimir's deep slumber, the man awoke with an odd-sounding groan; light-colored long lashes fluttering open. He immediately felt a stab of pain; he hurt all over his entire body. But he was surprised to find that he was not in his own Gondorian sleeping bag/tent, but in a large bed covered in fancy silk sheets and blankets with embossed leaf designs and an allover forest motif. It was almost nicer than his Prince-sized bed back home.

After a moment of thinking, Mortimir rolled onto his side, to see whose voice had awoken him. His eyes opened wide when he saw the person who sat next to the bed.

It was a young elf, very blond, and very good-looking. He sat on a chair near to the bed, dressed in what looked like an archer's uniform, earth-toned and also with a forest motif. He was also wearing a bow and a long-sword in a long-sword sheath, which was how Mortimir knew he was an archer. His hair was golden-blond and shone with the light of a hundred million suns as it cascaded down his back. He had a few tiny and delicate braids holding the gorgeous hair away from a more-gorgeous face. They were so small and tastefully placed that they must have been professionally done. The young elf had incredible blue sapphire sparkling eyes, deep and azure as a pool of tropical water.

"Would you like something to eat?" the elf asked again, smiling. The smile stirred something in Mortimir that he had never felt before. "I'm glad you've finally rejoined us."

"Where am I?" Mortimir asked, very confused. He looked around the room quickly. The bedroom was simply and elegantly furnished, with large, wood carved furniture embellished with fine elven antiques that might go for thousands of gold pieces at auction. There was a great big wardrobe that could fit a hundred different outfits, and a huge mirror and vanity covered in brushes and shampoos. The room itself was decorated mostly in greens and browns, but there were stylish traces of warm colors scattered here and there, almost as if there had been an interior decorator. The curtains were heavily embroidered and looked like they might have taken hundreds of years to complete. Mortimir could see tree tops through two large, open windows to the right of his bed.

"You are in King Thranduil's Canopy Palace," the elf replied heartily. "You were rescued from a ferocious band of orcs last night, and were brought here to recover."

Mortimir gasped, running a hand through his normally immaculate flame red hair. It was now dirty and tangled, soiled by the last night's escapades. He felt ashamed to look so unkempt while an Angel sat by his bedside.

"I am grateful to be alive." Mortimir said quietly. "I must thank the King at once!"

"The King knows of your situation, and requires you to recuperate. Shall I have something brought to you?"

At this point, Mortimir tried to sit up, and realized that he was naked.

"Where is my clothing?" he asked. He quickly slid the covers back over him, lounging in their sleekness.

The elf smiled, and Mortimir wanted to cry. The elf was so outrageously indescribably extraordinarily handsome that it made tears come to his eyes. He shook his head, trying to remain calm, but his heart was beating a little faster than usual.

"Unfortunately, your clothes were badly ruined during the attack. They were burnt immediately. However, you are free to dress yourself in whatever you might find in the wardrobe." The elf pointed. "You seem to be about my size."

Mortimer's heart skipped a beat._ This elf must be an important archer to have his own room in the palace, _he thought. Mortimir's heart skipped about three more beats when he realized that he was lying completely nude in the elf's bed. He turned as red as a sunburn. He looked around, trying to hide his obvious discomfort.

"Where is my satchel?" he queried. His satchel contained all of his pens and pencils and markers and watercolors and paints quills and paper and erasers and inks and perfume and pressed daisies that he would need in order to start a new life as a true poet and artist.

"We did manage to rescue your knapsack. It has been put in a safe place."

Mortimir couldn't help but stare at the stunning elf. He was tall, poised, thin, and had a perfect waist-shoulder ratio. Mortimir was sure he had a lean, toned body underneath all that heavy clothing.

All of a sudden, there came a knock on the door, and a female elf entered dressed almost like a nurse, carrying a tray of steaming hot delights, including eggs, bacon, French toast, Earl Gray tea, and a waffle emblazoned with the Mirkwood Royal crest.

"Breakfast!" she said cheerfully, placing the tray on a wicker night table. The archer cut a piece of French toast and put it forward towards Mortimir.

"Have something to eat. You must be famished."

Mortimir had butterflies in his stomach. He submissively bent forward and took the French toast. He swallowed it quickly, savoring the sweet syrup. It tasted good in his mouth.

"I am so glad you are awake. But I now must go and finish my daily training." The handsome elf said, standing. Mortimir had a good eye-level view. "Perhaps when you are well, we might converse more."

"Where will you stay, if I am to remain here?" Mortimir inquired.

"My father has an extra chamber I might have for a while. Do not let it worry you. For now, I bid you farewell."

With that the elf left, leaving Mortimir to watch. The nurse elf remained, watching Mortimir eat.

"You are so lucky," she pointed out to him, "that Prince Legolas rescued you."

_The Prince?_ Mortimir thought.

"The Prince?" Mortimir said.

"Yes," the nurse replied, "that was Prince Legolas, son and heir of King Thranduil of Mirkwood."


End file.
